


Jingle All The Way

by mydogwatson



Series: One Fixed Point: 2020 Advent Stories [5]
Category: Sherlock TV
Genre: Case fic [sort of], Costumes, Fluff, M/M, xmas decorations
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-05
Updated: 2020-12-05
Packaged: 2021-03-09 18:01:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,531
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27900433
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mydogwatson/pseuds/mydogwatson
Summary: John tries not to be hypocritical as he works to decide whom he hates the most, Sherlock Holmes or Father Christmas.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Series: One Fixed Point: 2020 Advent Stories [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2035588
Comments: 33
Kudos: 92





	Jingle All The Way

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [Звените всю дорогу](https://archiveofourown.org/works/28506195) by [Little_Unicorn](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Little_Unicorn/pseuds/Little_Unicorn)



> So the 5th day of the month and I feel certain we are all in need of some fluff after all the angst. Hope you agree! As always, your comments are like opening a gift.

Oh, what fun it is...  
-Pierpoint, J.

“No bloody way.”

“But it is the _only_ way,” Sherlock insisted. “We need an elf on the inside.”

John was so aggravated by the conversation that he had forgotten to put a tea bag into his cup, so when he turned back to the counter, ready to add milk, all the cup held was plain water. He swore under his breath and started all over again.

“If you’re making tea,” Sherlock said hopefully.

John didn’t bother to swear again, because over-use diluted the effect, but he did set a second mug onto the counter a little more forcefully than was either necessary or desirable. “You love dressing up and larking about in a costume,” he said then. “ _You_ go be a bloody elf.”

Sherlock put on his Eternally Patient face. He must really want the tea. “John,” he said, drawing himself up to his tallest. “Really, of the two of us which one is the   
most—“

“Unless you want this tea dumped in your lap, Sherlock, I wouldn’t finish that sentence,” John said stonily.

They went to their respective chairs. And, despite the irritation he was feeling at the moment, John experienced the usual sense of quiet contentment over the fact that both chairs were once again occupied. The soft sigh that emanated from Sherlock seemed to indicate that he felt the same.

“You haven’t done any decorating,” Sherlock said after a moment. “Usually at least a few seasonal bits of tat have made their way into the place by now.”

“We’ve been a bit pre-occupied,” John pointed out. 

The case of the Brighton Butcher had kept them running for a fortnight. It was the most exciting case they’d had since Sherlock’s return. John felt as if chasing the serial killer through the tourist haunts on the coast was the most fun he’d had in years. At the same time, he was also aware that the whole thing had kept them from something else. The case began the very day after their walk under the stars, which had seemed to John like a beginning. Of something.

But at dawn, Lestrade had called, yammering about a body at the Royal Pavillon in Brighton and they were off.

Because it was still not the right time for their much overdue conversation, John refrained from pointing out that it had been several years since either of them had been in 221B for the holidays. He sipped the tea. “What the devil is the case anyway?” he asked after a moment.

Just the fact that he asked the question made Sherlock visibly relax a bit, no doubt assuming that by showing an interest John had as good as agreed to the plan. John wanted to say that his assumption was wrong, but couldn’t quite bring himself to do so. He tried to avoid hypocrisy whenever possible.

Sherlock paused to swallow some of his tea and, briefly, his face showed the expression he still had whenever John made him a cuppa. John could not name the emotion, but he saw it every time.

“The body of an elf was found in the grotto when Father Christmas arrived this morning. Garrotted with a string of lights.” Sherlock’s lips twitched just slightly. “Exactly like the ones you usually drape around our fireplace.”

While John would never claim that he could read Sherlock Holmes’ mind, he thought he understood very well the point the other man was trying to make. A second reference to holiday decorating meant that Sherlock actually _wanted_ him to pull out the lights and other ‘bits of tat.’ John smiled brightly. “Why don’t you go solve the elficide while I decorate the flat?”

Sherlock frowned at him.

John sighed. “What the hell does an elf do anyway?”

“Just escort the children to Father Christmas, hand them a candy cane when they finish and hustle them off. Simple.”

“Humph.”

“And I believe that being cheerful is a job requirement as well.”

John made an obscene gesture.  
*

The last time he had felt so ridiculous had been at uni when the girl he was dating insisted that they were going to a fancy dress party in drag. She wore a tuxedo and top hat, while he was in a slinky red gown and a blonde wig. At the time, it had made him reconsider the relationship.

Now, he was in green tights and tunic. Pointed shoes. A stupid hat with a bell on top. 

He was reconsidering his entire life.

Meanwhile, bloody Sherlock Holmes was, indeed, larking about dressed in a security guard uniform, looking cool, and having the nerve to smirk at John occasionally.

The job was pretty much as Sherlock had described it. Save for the brats dripping snot or sticky with god-knew-what. The ones who were not happy to be taken off to meet a strange man with an unsettling ho-ho-ho and beady black eyes and so kicked the elf who was taking them there. Or the twins so overcome with excitement that both of them upchucked on his pointy shoes. Luckily, it was time for Father Christmas to have his break, so John was able to go away and clean himself.

He was not happy when Sherlock slipped into the bathroom as well. “I hate you,” he said.

The git leant against the wall, crossing his arms. “What do you think of Father Christmas?”

“I hate him, too. But not as much as you.” John finished cleaning his shoes, washed his hands, and turned to glare at Sherlock. “Do you think he’s an elf killer?”

“He is one of three suspects.”

“He drinks. His breath reeks of whisky.”

Sherlock just hummed in reply, gave him a smile, and left the room.

The rest of day one went on much the same, although without any more puking, so that was good.  
*

If nothing else, day two was less boring.

After all, waking up tied to a chair somewhere behind a cheesy grotto might be many things, but boring was not one of them. John tried to remember what had happened. He could recall Sherlock approaching him at the front of the line to whisper that he was going to follow the photographer at the end of the day.

“Text me if you need help,” John said, aware that Father Christmas was glaring at him for holding up the line.

After thirty more minutes, the shift finally ended. John headed for the changing room, turning his phone back on in case Sherlock tried to reach him. Otherwise, he was for home and some tea. With luck, Sherlock might even solve the case tonight. John glanced at his phone again and frowned. If things got dicey, he hoped the idiot would text.

He was thinking of trying to reach Sherlock instead of waiting, but just then heard a noise behind him and then there was only blackness. It was clear from the bump on his head what had happened.

It was no real surprise when Father Christmas showed up. In one hand, he held a whisky bottle and in the other, a string of lights. “You and that tall bastard shoulda minded your own business,” he growled.

John was tempted to respond like a B-movie character. And then, figuring what the hell did he have to lose at this point, he did just that. “Murder _is_ our business,” he said.

Father Christmas was not amused, at least judging by his next action, which was to step closer and wrap the lights around John’s neck, tightening the hold until things started to go a bit grey around the edges. John had the ridiculous thought that dying in an elf costume was not exactly anything he had ever imagined. The tabloids would have a field day. Hopefully without pictures.

Then he realised that his last thoughts should probably have been more...important. Something about Sherlock. Except that thought hurt, almost more than the dying.

With the grey turning darker and oxygen hard to come by, John was only vaguely aware of the door flying open and then, suddenly, all the pressure around his neck was gone. He managed to open his eyes enough to see a tall bastard kneeling over Father Christmas and beating his head against the floor. Repeatedly.

John made a sound, not really a word, but it served to get Sherlock’s attention. He immediately dropped the unconscious man and literally crawled to where John was. Quickly, but with infinite tenderness, he unwound the string of lights from John’s neck. Then he produced a knife from somewhere and cut the ropes at his wrists and ankles.

Finally, he sat back on his heels and stared at John. “Are you alright?” he asked hoarsely.

John just nodded. He wanted to tell Sherlock about his clever retort, but wasn’t quite sure that his voice would work. Instead, he just stared into those impossible eyes, with all the colours swirling together. Blue and green and dark grey. It was like watching a storm approach over the ocean. Then, abruptly, he saw something shift within the maelstrom. Something he could not identify.

The storm calmed.

And then Sherlock leaned forward and kissed him.

**


End file.
